The secretary’s words stuck in my chest like a splinter.

—Because you are not the first mother to call about a child who runs to wash up as soon as he gets home.

For a second, I couldn’t speak. The world seemed to shrink to the buzzing of the phone and my own rapid, shallow breathing.

“What… what do you mean by that?” I managed to ask.

On the other end of the line, the woman sighed. It wasn’t a sigh of annoyance, but of weariness. Of someone who had been carrying something too heavy for days—perhaps weeks.

“Mrs. Hart, I can’t explain it over the phone. But I need you to come right now. Please.”

I hung up without saying goodbye. My hands moved on their own as I grabbed my keys and purse, not even sure if I’d locked the door. On the way to school, the traffic felt like deliberate torture. Every red light was an enemy. Every slow car, a threat.

My mind kept repeating one question:

What are they doing to my daughter?

When I arrived, the school building—which had always seemed like a safe, almost boring place—felt different. Hostile. The beige walls seemed grayer, the hallways too long.

The secretary was waiting for me, standing up. She wasn’t smiling.

—Come with me—he said, walking around the counter.

She led me to a small meeting room. Inside were the principal, the school counselor… and another woman I didn’t know, with a thick folder on her lap. She had a serious expression and a discreet badge attached to her belt.

“Mrs. Hart,” said the principal, “this is Agent Morales from child protective services.”

I felt the ground tilt.

“Child protection?” I repeated. “Why is it here?”

The counselor answered. Her voice was soft and measured, as if every word had been rehearsed.

—Because Sophie isn’t the only one exhibiting this behavior. In recent weeks, five children have started…compulsively cleaning themselves after school. Some cry if they can’t do it immediately. Others refuse to change their clothes.

Five.

“And nobody called me before?” I asked, unable to hide my trembling.

The director lowered her gaze.

—We thought it was a phase. Or something cultural. Until a girl had a panic attack in the classroom when her uniform sleeve ripped.

My heart stopped for a second.

“Blood?” I asked.

Agent Morales nodded slowly.

—Not much. But enough to worry us.

“Where is my daughter?” I said, standing up. “I want to see her now.”

“She’s fine,” the counselor replied. “She’s with her group. She’s not hurt… at least, not physically.”

That “at least” pierced me.

We walked to the classroom. Through the window, I saw Sophie sitting at her desk, hunched over, her shoulders tense. She wasn’t speaking to anyone. Her hands were hidden under the table.

When I entered, she raised her head and her eyes lit up for a moment… but then they went out.

“Mom…” she whispered.

I hugged her so tightly I felt her rigid body against mine. She didn’t hug me back right away. When she did, it was carefully, as if she were afraid of getting me dirty.

“Honey,” I whispered in her ear. “Everything’s going to be alright. I promise.”

I didn’t know if it was true.

They took her out of the classroom and led us back to the room. Agent Morales sat down opposite Sophie, at eye level.

“Sophie,” she said calmly, “your mom found something at home that worried us. We want to make sure you’re safe. Is it okay if I ask you a few questions?”

Sophie looked at me first. I nodded, even though inside I was falling apart.

“You’re not in trouble,” the counselor added. “Nobody here is angry with you.”

Sophie pressed her lips together. For a few seconds she said nothing. Then, in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, she asked:

—Do I have to tell you everything?

That was the moment I knew something horrible had been happening.

“Only what you can,” the agent replied. “And you can stop whenever you want.”

Sophie took a deep breath. Her hands were trembling.

“I didn’t want Mom to know,” she said. “I thought if I cleaned myself up… if I washed really well… it would go away.”

“What is it, darling?” I asked.

She swallowed.

—The smell.

I felt nauseous.

“What smell?” the agent persisted gently.

—The smell of the art room.

We looked at her, confused.

“Art?” the director repeated. “What’s happening in the art room?”

Sophie hesitated. Her eyes filled with tears.

—The teacher… Mr. Ramirez… says that when we stay after class, we have to help clean. But it’s not cleaning tables.

The air became heavy.

“What does it make you do?” the agent asked.

Sophie closed her eyes.

“She says we’re dirty. That children are always dirty. And that if we don’t clean ourselves properly, no one will ever want to touch us. She uses sponges… and a liquid that burns.”

I felt something break inside me.

“Does it hurt?” I asked, barely able to speak.

She nodded.

—It doesn’t always bleed. Only sometimes. And she says not to tell anyone, because it’s “part of the learning process.”

Agent Morales closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, there was no longer any doubt in her gaze.

“How many children are staying with him?” he asked.

—Sometimes four. Sometimes more —Sophie replied—. She changes the days. She says that way we don’t get used to it.

Everything fell into place. The urgent baths. The damaged clothes. The diluted blood in the drain.

“Why did you take a bath right away when you got home?” I asked, my voice breaking.

Sophie looked at me, and for the first time she cried openly.

—Because I was afraid that you would smell it too… and think it was disgusting.

I hugged her tightly as she sobbed against my chest.

What followed was an avalanche. The school was partially evacuated. Professor Ramirez was escorted from the building by the police that same day. Other parents arrived, confused, scared… some with the same knot of terror I had felt.

More children spoke. Each story was different, but they all shared the same thread: shame, fear, and an obsession with “cleaning up.”

It turned out that Ramirez had been moving from school to school for years. He always left before anyone could prove anything. He always left behind broken children, convinced that the filth was inside them.

That night, Sophie didn’t take a bath.

She sat with me on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, watching cartoons like when she was little. Every now and then, she glanced at me, as if making sure I was still there.

“Mom,” she said to me before going to sleep, “do I not have to wash all the time anymore?”

I stroked her hair.

—No, my love. You never had to do it.

Months have passed since then. Sophie goes to therapy. Sometimes she still runs to the bathroom… but now only to wash her hands, like any other child. She no longer slams the door shut in desperation.

I, on the other hand, learned something that pains me to admit: children don’t always know how to ask for help with words . Sometimes they do it with strange routines. With silences. With rituals that seem innocent… until they aren’t.

Every time I clean the bathroom, I remember that piece of cloth caught in the drain.

And I am grateful to have found it in time.

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